


Ain't No Party Like a Golden Deer Party Because Lorenz Hellman Gloucester Showed Up To This Golden Deer Party Wearing A Butt Plug

by CameToWin



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Anal Sex, Bunny suit! Lorenz, College AU, Degradation, M/M, Modern AU, Trans Claude von Riegan, mild exhibitionism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:15:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26554942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CameToWin/pseuds/CameToWin
Summary: Golden Deer is a weird frat house where everyone is a little too close/possibly banging. Lorenz thinks this is a perfect place to get a little wild, especially during a Halloween party. Claude definitely hates Lorenz/'s father/'s political views, but this is too amazing an opportunity to pass up.
Relationships: Lorenz Hellman Gloucester/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 6
Kudos: 36





	Ain't No Party Like a Golden Deer Party Because Lorenz Hellman Gloucester Showed Up To This Golden Deer Party Wearing A Butt Plug

Claude is posted up on the landing of the stairs that lead up to the bedrooms. He is standing behind a couple of chairs, wrapped in streamers, that are meant to keep people who aren’t in Golden Deer from sneaking upstairs. He’s giving their flimsy protection some weight, and they’re making him just unapproachable enough that no one is bothering him. This is the perfect vantage point, giving him a view of the hall between the two main doorways, eyes on the kitchen, and enough proximity to the living room to know what’s going on by volume level alone. 

Claude loves Halloween. No religious bullshit, no pressure to spend it with your family, no weird mixed-messages about love and consumerism. Just winking condonment of disguise, lewdness, and tomfoolery. 

Also, everyone loves the rakish pirate costume, himself included.

He should be downstairs doing something/one he’ll remember fondly in his forties. Or dancing like everyone is watching and delighted to see him. Or at least playfully arguing with a buzzed Hilda.

But he’s just standing here, chewing his lip and trying to decide if he should actually finish this weird tootsie pop cocktail Leonie made him. 

The door to the back entrance opens and bangs against the outer wall, probably wrenched out of someone’s hands by a stray gust of wind. Whoever opened it closes it again with a little too much care. There is some shuffling that sounds to Claude like someone tossing their coat into the  ~~ laundry ~~ coat room beside the door. The click of heels on the tile in the entrance. 

It’s a good thing Claude didn’t finish that drink, or he would have fallen straight over when the newcomer came out of the foyer and into the hall that feeds into the rest of the house.

“Gloucester!” Claude yells before ditching his drink on a chair and using the bannister to vault halfway down the stairs. 

Lorenz’s shoulders jump to his ears, before he turns his head so he can look at Claude, horror in his eyes. 

It’s not the worst welcome Claude’s ever received. “What are you doing here?” He says, as if the way Lorenz is dressed doesn’t explain it all. 

Picture, if you will, a fully grown man, grown to six feet and two inches, to be exact, wearing sedate lilac pumps, pantyhose transparent to the point of mere summer along his legs, a stiff, shiny purple leotard riding high on his hips, covering only what is necessary for modesty, and covering it in such a way that modesty is not the first word that springs to mind. 

Top it all off with a bow tie collar, cuffs attached at the wrists and, of course, a pair of soft white bunny ears, one rakishly bent in the middle. 

“I-I was invited,” Lorenz managed, staring at Claude as Claude stared at him, not even pretending that he wasn’t carefully considering every inch of Lorenz’s exposed skin. “Hilda-Hilda told me-Stop looking at my tail!”

Lorenz abruptly pivoted, blocking Claude’s view of his fluffy little tail. 

“I wasn’t looking at your tail,” Claude said as he straiughtened up, “I was trying to see the plug you’ve got in there.”

Lorenz turned a truly spectacular shade of red. “How-” He sputtered.

Claude probably would have laughed if his head wasn’t so busy exploding. 

“What?! You actually-I was kidding!”

Their gazes locked, eyes wide, faces flushed.

Then Lorenz turned on his heel-Claude was honestly impressed by the perfection of his balance-and headed further into the house. As if Claude would just stand there, dumbstruck, all night. 

Okay, he did stand there with his mouth hanging open for a minute--but it was a useful minute! He was thinking!

Claude burst out the back door and careened around the lawn, hopping his own fence to get to the backyard where he suspected Hilda to be holding court. 

She was, sitting on the huge wicker table they kept out back, surrounded by people and bottles of booze. (Thanks to some dumb slip of Fargus’ dumb legal system the Golden Deer could have alcohol on their premises, just not inside the house. This led to peak dumbassery in the colder months, involving the question of how much one could drink to be warm enough to run outside in a crop top to procure more drinks). 

Claude regains his composure in the shadow of the gate. He approaches Hilda from behind and leans over a veritable glass forest of liquor bottles to speak directly into her ear. 

“Hilda, did you actually invite Gloucester to this party?”

Hilda laughs in a way people generally don’t when another person appears out of thin air to ask them questions in a tone which clearly states ‘this is all your fault’. She looks every inch the pixie in her teeny-tiny tinkerbell costume. 

“You know what? I think I did. Even though I swore I wouldn’t bother actually inviting anyone!”

A thousand follow-up questions spring to Claude’s lips. Before he can whittle them down enough to actually ask her anything, Hilda continues: 

“He said he would never come to a party you were throwing, so I just told him you wouldn’t be there.”

Claude tilts his head. “And he...believed that?”

Hilda shrugs, then takes a thoughtful sip of her drink. “I got the feeling that he  _ wanted _ to.”

“But should we have a dance off?” A slutty male nurse in shredded scrubs asks Hilda, bringing her and Claude back into the important conversation going on around them.

“Well, of course!” Hilda replies. “Claude, could you set us up for a dance off?”

“I’d be happy to,” Claude says, flashing his ten-thousand watt smile. “We should set up in the living room.” Then, while everyone else is either dazzled or looking for the living room, Claude grips Hilda’s shoulder just hard enough to get her attention and whispers, “Get Gloucester there. Please,” He adds, before she can sass him for not asking nicely.

“Aye aye captain,” Hilda says, before jumping off the table so her platforms make a whacking noise against the ground that can probably be heard two houses down. 

Claude adjusts the fancy (real, but fake if anyone asks) dagger hanging from his belt, and heads for the living room, carefully scanning the crowd as he goes. 

Sylvain is leaning against a kitchen counter, just close enough to the door to the backyard that his nipples are hard in the chill. It’s really a special touch on top of the ‘gladiator’ costume he’s wearing: Bright red briefs, a sheet tied like a cape, and a gladiator helmet with a trailing red plume. Oh, a sword hung on his belt. Can’t forget the phallic symbolism. 

“Hey, Sylvain, you want to win a dirty dance-off?” Claude asks. 

He doesn’t even have to promise Sylvain a prize. Ten minutes later there is a gathering crowd in the living room and Sylvain is up on the large, sturdy coffee table flirting with everyone in the room to the sultry strains of Get Low. 

“Come on,” Hilda says as she pushes Lorenz into the room, “If you can’t beat Sylvain, I’m sure you could learn a thing or two!”

“I’m not sure I want such an education,” Lorenz manages, face going red as the plume on Sylvain’s helmet. 

Claude spots Raphael in the crowd (not hard given his size) and yells, “Hey, Raphael, give the boy something to work with.”

In terms of dancing, Raphael can really only manage the white-boy-at-a-school-dance- jogging-arms thing. But he excels at standing on a table so Sylvain can grind on him like a stripper. 

Claude changes the music to ‘Slave 4 U’ and uses the rising cheer as cover to sidle up next to Lorenz and catch him by the tail. 

Lorenz’s shoulders jerk, but Claude says, “Careful. Don’t want to tear this off.” He gives the fuzzy little tail a squeeze and watches Lorenz tense like Claude just grabbed his ass. 

“Are you going to tell my father about this? Blackmail me?” Lorenz speaks out of the side of his mouth and does not take his eyes off Hilda, who has now joined Sylvain and is trying to dance him off the table. 

That takes a little of the wind out of Claude’s sails. Yes, he has spent years delighting in scandalizing and confusing Lorenz whenever their paths crossed thanks to their parents overlapping (and often outright combative) political careers. But when Claude came out his parents made sure he knew they loved him, before they sprang into action figuring out how to handle the press. It’s a shame to know Lorenz thinks simply wearing a provocative costume is enough material for blackmail.

Claude leans his cheek against Lorenz’s bare shoulder blade, hand still firmly on that tail. “Dude, you gotta chill. I just think it’s hilarious to watch you trying to have a good time.”

Lorenz seems slightly less tense. At least, he doesn’t shake Claude off or spit vitriol.

Claude decides to go for broke. He slides his hands between Lorenz’s cheeks and hooks his fingers around the strip of fabric that connects the back of Lorenz’s leotard to the front. 

Lorenz goes very, very still.

Claude gets on his tiptoes and whispers in Lorenz’s ear, “Hey, if I pulled on this, would it open?” He can feel snaps under his fingers rather than a hook and eye closure, so he doesn’t need Lorenz to answer him. “If I did that, would the whole thing fly up and show everyone the underwear you are definitely not wearing?”

Lorenz is shaking a little. “I’m wearing underwear.”

Claude snorts his disbelief. “I can prove you’re not.” He stretches his fingers out, tracing up the line of Lorenz’s ass. Between the puffy sleeve of Claude’s shirt and the angle of his body he’s pretty sure people won’t notice what he’s doing. Also there are the unholy things Leonie is now doing to Hilda to the dulcet tones of Shake That. Leonie isn’t even pretending that she can dance; She’s just groping Hilda to the beat. Hilda won’t stop laughing, and is trying to twerk. 

Claude finds the plug, though it feels a little blurry through Lorenz’s pantyhose. 

A noise escapes from behind Lorenz’s clenched teeth. He’s no longer just flushed-he looks downright feverish. 

Claude rolls the end of the plug under his fingers. He can’t tell what it looks like or how big it is, but Lorenz’s fists are clenched and his knees are wobbling. 

This is amazing. All of Claude’s Halloween wishes come true. Lorenz Hellman Gloustcher, the most uptight, serious, chaste insert-your-favorite-term-for-sanctimonious-virgin-here, is wearing an anal plug and turning into jelly in Claude’s hands in the middle of a crowded living room. 

Someone elbows past the two of them to get on that table, shoving Claude against Lorenz. Lorenz makes a high-pitched sound only Claude can hear under the music. 

Fuck it. No, seriously, fuck it. Claude isn’t going to waste this opportunity on barely fingering Lorenz in public. 

The next thing Claude knows he’s navigating around the chairs on the landing, Lorenz’s wrist in one hand, the bannister in the other. They have to stop at Claude’s door so he can fish the key out of his pocket. It takes a moment longer than usual to unlock the door because he won’t let go of Lorenz. It’s half fear Lorenz will bolt, half the desire to feel the way Lorenz’s wrist fits against his palm.

“Do you always lock your door?”

“Always,” Claude bites out. He shoves Lorenz into the room and closes the door behind him. Claude’s fingers go to turn the lock, but he stops. 

“You know you can leave, right?” Claude swallows, “I wouldn’t actually strip you in front of everyone.”

The room is dark. Lorenz’s silhouette is limned in moonlight on one side. Claude wonders if he is even visible. 

“I know.” 

“So you know if you don’t leave now, I’m going to destroy you?”

The darkness goes inky, staining and thick in the silence. 

“Lofty promises from a man whose word can’t be trusted.”

This is, possibly, the sexiest challenge Claude has ever heard. 

The lock clicks. 

Lorenz might be big, but he’s wearing heels in a dark, unfamiliar room. Claude tosses him onto his bed, before turning on the lamp on his bedside table, turning the room into shades of shadow and ocher. 

Lorenz is blinking, but Claude is already reaching for the long string on the venetian blind that covers the window that runs along the side of his bed. Two loops, pull one through the other, and he’s looking at a pair of handcuffs. Claude grabs one of Lorenz’s hands and shoves it into a loop. 

Lorenz cranes his neck, trying to figure out what Claude is doing. “Are you trying to...that won’t work.”

Claude puts Lorenz’s other hand through a loop, tightens them, and ties a knot to lock the makeshift cuffs in place. 

Claude steps back from the bed to admire his work. Lorenz is lying horizontally across the bed, arms high behind his head because of the cord’s short length. His legs are dangling off the side of the bed. 

Lorenz pulls at the cord, and his eyes go wide when he realizes the knot won’t immediately give. He squirms, body undulating in that tight, shiny leotard. He tugs hard on the cord, and gasps a little when it bites into his wrists. 

Claude smiles. He could watch the emotions flickering across Lorenz’s face all night, but he would rather drown them all in lust. 

Claude pops open the fastening at the bottom of Lorenz’s costume, and he is honestly surprised to be confronted with Lorenz’s dick, half-hard and straining against his pantyhose. 

Claude grips Lorenz’s cock hard enough to make Lorenz gasp again, and then twists his palm so the rough fabric of the hose scratches against the half-exposed head. 

Lorenz’s legs jerk, almost taking out Claude’s lamp. It’s sexy how long they are, but also kind of dangerous. 

Claude kneels and throws Lorenz’s legs over his shoulders. He admires Lorenz’s dick for a moment as it lengthens, fighting valiantly against the tight hose. Claude lightly touches Lorenz’s thighs before he grips the hose on either side of the seam and pulls hard. 

Lorenz whimpers as his hose is shredded, but it turns into a full-on keen when Claude presses on Lorenz’s buttplug, pushing it deeper and angling it upward. 

“I’m surprised you don’t have the fucking Gloustcher crest on the bottom of this thing.” Actually, it is a little pink jewel, which looks so incredibly slutty it makes Claude’s cunt clench. 

Claude pulls the plug out just enough so the widest part is stretching Lorenz’s rim. Lorenz squirms and curses, so Claude slaps his thigh, causing Lorenz’s thighs to jerk and twitch around Claude’s neck. Claude grabs one by the calf and bites the soft skin behind Lorenz’s knee. 

Lorenz  _ moans _ .

Oh, fuck. Claude can not take that. He already has the sort of raging hard-on that makes him feel like he won’t be able to walk straight. The sound of Lorenz moaning like some sort of pain slut makes Claude want to ditch what little gentility he’s holding on to and just hump Lorenz’s face until he comes. 

Claude rips the plug out to Lorenz’s barely stifled scream. 

“F-fuck,” Lorenz gasps as Claude slowly stands. “You-you could have warned me.”

Claude leaves the plug on top of his dresser before he opens the top drawer. “Alright, fair warning, I’m about to fuck your ass until you can barely walk.”

Lorenz laughs breathlessly, but it doesn’t sound like he thinks Claude is kidding. 

Claude pushes plenty of other unmentionables aside to get to what he wants: Big, long, the same light brown as his skin. Claude doesn’t get to use this strap much. It’s not cute or super easy to play with. This is the sort of thing you pull out when you have just promised to destroy someone’s ass, and you intend to be true to your word. 

“Oh,” Lorenz says when Claude turns back to him, “That is big.”

“Thank you.”

Lorenz watches, rapt, as Claude pulls his pants down enough to slide the smaller end of the dildo inside himself. Claude bites his lip, trying not to give away the slight burn he feels at the stretch. Although he's already so wound up even that gives him a modicum of relief. 

Lorenz’s breathing gets a little shallower when Claude pulls out a bottle of lube and slicks up his shaft with it. It's almost cute how focused Lorenz is. His wide eyed, steady gaze and little pants put Claude in the mind of a dog who is waiting for you to throw the ball again.

Claude steps forward, lifts Lorenz’s entire ass off the bed and slides into it, slow but unstoppable until Lorenz’s head is thrown back and he has taken Claude all the way to the base.

“O-okay,” Lorenz manages, voice shaky, thighs twitching. “If you could just-”

Claude starts pounding into him like there’s no tomorrow. His bed isn’t just banging against the wall, the cheap twin is practically bouncing with every one of Claude’s thrusts. Lorenz thrashes, but Claude keeps a tight grip on his legs, holding him in place and giving Claude enough leverage to keep up his brutal pace.

“Oh, god-ess,” Lorenz gasps, somehow enunciating more clearly in his abandon. His dick is twitching and dripping on his stomach.

Claude pauses for a moment to catch his breath. Lorenz’s harsh breathing fills the room.

“You feel good?” Claude reaches down to trace Lorenz’s rim.

“Yes.” Lorenz curls up a bit, his abdomen flexing. “It...hurts?” He sighs and flops back down. “It  _ aches _ . But it’s good.”

“I can’t believe you were walking around with a plug in you. I’ve never actually known someone that perverted.” Claude grabs the bottle of lube off his bedside table and pours some on his fingers.

Lorenz sits up a bit again. “What are you doing?”

“Stretching you out a bit more. I like it when a whore’s kind of loose.”

Lorenz whimpered. “C-Claude.”

It took a minute, but Claude managed to fit another finger in under his dick. Lorenz is biting back his whimpers. Claude slapped Lorenz’s thigh with his other hand.

“Go on and scream, sweetheart. I want everyone to know how good a fuck I am.” Claude leaned down, put his lips close to Lorenz’s ear. “Besides, no one is going to believe it’s Lorenz Hellman Gloucester in here getting screwed loose.”

“Kiss me.”

Well, it can’t be that crazy of a request. Not when Lorenz is letting Claude see how much abuse his hole can take. 

It’s messy, but it is a kiss, and it feels good. Lorenz relaxes under Claude, and Claude is able to fit another finger inside of him even as he begins rocking his hips again. The punishing pace he set before really only teased him. A deeper grind gives Claude the friction he needs to actually get off.

Claude rolls his hips, and manages an angle that has Lorenz’s eyes rolling back in his head. Just a few more thrusts like that, and suddenly Lorenz becomes frantic once again. 

“Claude-Claude-I’m going to-”

Claude wraps one hand around Lorenz’s neck and squeezes hard for a moment. Just enough to get his attention.

“Patience,” Claude grits through his teeth, “You are not allowed to come until I do.”

“F-fuck,” Lorenz whimpers, “Claude, I can’t-”

Claude squeezes once again, until he hears Lorenz’s breathing stutter.

“You will  _ wait.” _

Lorenz whines, then clamps his lips together. Luckily for him the sight of him fighting back his orgasm as Claude carefully works his hips to best get them both off is sending Claude rocketing toward an orgasm.

Claude groans as pleasure roars through him, and he feels Lorenz spasm beneath him. Cum splatters across Lorenz’s chest, and his moan goes on and on, hips jerking in time with the liquid spurting out of his dick.

Claude slowly pulls out, aftershocks still pounding through him. He wipes his hands on a tissue and gingerly disengages his dick before tossing it in the hamper. 

“You feel okay?” Claude asks as he undoes the binding on Lorenz’s hands.

Lorenz makes an affirmative noise as he rubs at his reddened wrists. The marks left by the cord are deep and almost purple. Lorenz looks down. He’s a mess. Leotard barely hanging on to his chest, pantyhose torn, semen dripping from whatever isn’t already flushed and sweaty. 

“Would you get me my coat? It’s light brown, long-”

“I’ll find it,” Claude says, trying not to reveal that he has several vivid memories of Lorenz swanning around in that exact coat. For some reason. Lorenz is big, and has striking features, but there was no real reason for Claude to be staring at him that day at the intersection that separates the art complex from the law school. But there Lorenz was, and Claude was staring. 

The party is still going if the sounds that assault Claude as soon as he opens his door are any indication. Music, talking, the general din of many people put together in one place with tight acoustics. 

Lorenz’s coat is on the washing machine, on top of a few others, buried under more. The label is visible, with a tag sewed in at the neck. Not the usual brand name and care instructions. Just ‘Gloucester’ in cursive font. From that alone Claude can imagine how much this damn coat cost. He carefully slides it out from underneath the others, and is suddenly confronted with the lining. 

A small sound escapes Claude he would absolutely deny making. 

The cuffs and collar have some silky black material inside them, and if Lorenz was wearing the coat, even if he was using his hands or tilted his neck, that is all someone would see. But the rest of the coat is lined in vibrant yellow and green tartan plaid. It’s so loud and funky it looks more like something you’d get marked down at a thrift shop than  _ couture _ . But it is  _ couture _ , which means Lorenz picked it out himself. 

It shouldn’t matter that these are Claude’s favorite colors, but he still catches himself standing there, staring at the coat, thumbing the collar, fighting back the strange urge to bury his face in it. 

Claude creeps back to his room, coat slung over his shoulder, gripping the spot on the collar where the tag is to cover it. 

Lorenz is standing when Claude returns, still looking just-fucked, except for his eyes. They're not exactly shuttered, but the curtains have been carefully drawn. 

“Thank you,” He says, as Claude helps him into his coat. Claude doesn’t comment on the lining. 

The coat hits Lorenz just above the knee. All buttoned up, with his bunny ears slipped into a pocket and his hair finger-combed back, Lorenz looks fairly respectable. Well, there’s the pumps and his still pink face, sheened with moisture, but it’s close to respectable. Respectable deniability. 

Claude realizes he and Lorenz are staring at each other. He’s not sure what either of them are waiting for. 

Lorenz turns on his heel and heads for the door. 

“Don’t tell anyone about this,” He says as he passes Claude, although he doesn’t look at him as he speaks. 

Lorenz has just put his back to Claude when Claude grabs him by the collar and hauls him back. Claude presses his lips to Lorenz’s neck. He can feel Lorenz’s warmth, his pulse, the finely buzzed hairs at the base of his skull.

Claude’s mouth opens and the kiss becomes a bite, teeth sinking into Lorenz’s skin with enough suction behind them to leave a mark. A scent-Lorenz’s shampoo? Something released by his sweat?-teases Claude’s nose, all wet roses, mixed with the musk now trapped under Lorenz’s coat. 

It lingers around Claude’s face long after Lorenz leaves without a word. 

Claude haunts the party for a bit, to make sure he’s seen, to make sure nothing irreplaceable, or a bitch to replace, gets broken, but in the end he retires fairly early after a long shower. 

When he wakes up the next morning and heads for his dresser for clothes, he finds Lorenz’s plug on top of it, glinting in the morning light even though it is clearly tacky with dried lube. 

Claude finds Lorenz's number in his contacts, the party favor of some lame fundraiser they both attended a million years ago-high school?-back when their parents pretended to like each other and they had enough commitment to the ruse to exchange numbers. 

He sends Lorenz two pictures, the plug on his dresser, and him holding it so the gem at the bottom is visible. 

**Hey, Cinderella, you forgot something last night.**

Lorenz does not respond. 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments = <3
> 
> 1\. The handcuffs Claude made are based on the quick/Texas cuffs described on The Duchy (google it)
> 
> 2\. A venetian blind cord would probably be a bad material for doing this because it could become uncomfortably/dangerously tight very quickly. Stay safe out there.


End file.
